


Fluff

by space_squirrel



Series: Warrior Daughter [9]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, ME3 Lockup, Pre-Mass Effect 3, literal fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_squirrel/pseuds/space_squirrel
Summary: Shepard does laundry.Written for the "Month of Fanfiction" challenge on Tumblr, run by joufancyhuh & yourlocalpriestess; Day 1: Shameless Fluff.





	Fluff

“ _Ugh!”_  

Vega glances up from his spot at the table, looking in the direction of the offending noise. Across the room, Sophie Shepard has just fished her N7 hoodie out of the dryer, and is holding it at arms length in front of her, as if it’s diseased. 

Vega raises an eyebrow. “Everything cool, Commander?” 

She makes another disgusted noise, and chucks her sweater across the room with a level of fury and vitriol he’s only ever seen on the battlefield. It hits the floor with a soft thud as she sinks down onto the couch, a look of defeat written on her features. 

“It’s the dryer,” she says sullenly. “I’ve washed this thing a million fucking times, _I swear,_ and no matter what I do it comes out covered in this... this fucking _fluff.”_  

She scowls at the sweater and, for emphasis, picks a clump of white lint off her tank top and flicks it away. 

Vega chokes back a laugh. “Have you cleaned out the washer?” 

Shepard stares at him blankly. “It’s a washing machine, what is there to clean? Doesn’t it _do_ the cleaning?” 

He rolls his eyes as he stands, making his way over to the washer and dryer. “You still gotta clean it out every now and then,” he says, and opens the door to take a look. Inside, there’s a mess of clothes: colours, whites, blacks, towels... he turns to face Shepard, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why are you washing all these together? A grey towel with black sweaters? White socks? That’s half your problem right there.” 

“...I’m supposed to separate things? Says who? _Since when?_ ” 

 _“Dios_ , Shepard!” he exclaims, eyes widening in shock. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to do laundry?” 

He didn’t think it was possible for Shepard to scowl harder than she already had been, but here she is, a frown so exaggerated, so fierce, Vega’s actually afraid her face just might stick that way. 

“I grew up on a space station with two military officers for parents, _James,”_ she says sharply. “We outsourced stuff like that.” 

“And when you lived on Earth?” 

She blushes. “My, ah, Aunt took care of the laundry.” 

“And during your basic training? Or ICT? I mean, I know I had to do my own laundry during basic... _surely_ you learned then?” 

Shepard is beet red by this point, and has taken a sudden, deep interest in her fingernails. 

“Oh, _come on_ ,” he says, clearly shocked. “How did you avoid that one?” 

“Patrick,” she mumbles, still not meeting his gaze. “Or Luke. Sometimes Amanda, and even Livvie helped once―” 

“So you basically managed to somehow, for _thirty-three_ years of your life, never do laundry until now? Not once?” 

“THIRTY-ONE,” Shepard replies sharply, narrowing her eyes at him. “I was dead for two, so they don’t count,” she pauses, and a beat passes. “And if you _must know,_ I can be very resourceful when I need to be. And back then? I needed my laundry done, and they needed... well, they each needed something different, but we cut a deal. ” 

James can’t help but shake his head for a third time. “So you’re telling me the Great Commander Shepard, The Butcher of Torfan, Saviour of the Citadel, N7, Humanity’s First Spectre... couldn't do a proper load of laundry to save her life.” 

She shrugs. “There’s worse things in the world.” Suddenly, she sits up straight, a gleam in her eye - one that, after basically living with her for three months in lock-up, Vega instantly recognizes as the _up-to-no-good_ look. In a flash, she's sidling up to his side, smile playing on her lips, eyelashes fluttering. “Sounds like you know your way around a laundry room, huh Vega?” 

“Oh hell no,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “I am _not_ doing your laundry for you.” 

The smile and flirtation is wiped off her face as quickly as it appeared, and Shepard huffs out an exasperated breath. “FINE. But you’ll be sorry when I’m out of clothes and have to start wearing _yours,”_ she says, stomping towards the bedroom, and Vega instantly has a very clear picture of Shepard wearing one of his tee’s (and not much else). He quickly pushes the thought out of his brain: Lola would fucking biotically kick him across the room if she knew.

Sighing, he heads to the kitchen to look for vinegar. He might not be willing to do Shepard’s laundry―that’s crossing about a million lines he doesn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole―but as her friend, he can at _least_ help her run a clean wash cycle to eradicate the fluff.

 

* * *

 

**Yup, I wrote actual, literal, laundry fluff.**

**You're welcome.**


End file.
